Chapter 2

The days that followed were a blur of hollow-eyed misery.

I moved through our cold, sterile mansion like a ghost, my body aching with a grief so profound it felt like a physical illness.

Sleep offered no escape, only nightmares of Lily falling, her face a silent scream against an endless blue sky.

Ethan was never home, he was always with Scarlett, planning her recovery, building her new life on the foundations of mine.

When he did see me, his eyes slid over me as if I were a piece of furniture he no longer liked.

I was an inconvenient reminder of his cruelty.

One morning, he found me in the conservatory, staring blankly at the rain-streaked glass.

"Scarlett needs you," he said, without preamble.

I didn't turn around.

"Needs me for what?" My voice was flat, lifeless.

"Her emotional support dog arrives today. The therapist says it's crucial for her PTSD. You're going to be responsible for it."

A cold knot of fear tightened in my stomach.

I was terrified of large dogs, a deep-seated phobia from a childhood attack.

Ethan knew this.

He had once held me for hours after a neighbor's German Shepherd had barked at me, whispering promises that he would always keep me safe.

Now, he was using that fear against me.

"I can't," I said.

"You know I can't. Hire a trainer, a dog-sitter."

"No," he said, his voice final.

"You will do it. It will show Scarlett that you support her recovery. Consider it part of your atonement."

Later that day, a crate was delivered.

Inside was a massive Belgian Malinois, all muscle and teeth.

Its name was Ares.

Scarlett stood in the doorway of the living room, a picture of fragile beauty, clinging to Ethan's arm.

As I approached the crate, the dog let out a low, guttural growl that vibrated through the floor.

"Oh, he's just being protective," Scarlett cooed, a faint, malicious smile playing on her lips.

"You'll have to earn his trust, Chloe. Try not to be so... tense."

The next week was hell.

Ares was not a support animal, he was a weapon.

He regarded me with open hostility, growling whenever I came near his food, baring his teeth if I moved too quickly.

I fed him, I walked him, my body rigid with terror the entire time.

I had scratches up and down my arms from when he would lunge at me, his leash pulling taut.

I did it all because I had no other choice.

I was a prisoner, and this was just another bar on my cage.

One evening, I was preparing the dog's food in the kitchen.

It was a raw meat concoction that made my stomach turn.

Scarlett drifted in, watching me with her calculating eyes.

"You look exhausted, Chloe," she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy.

"Maybe this is too much for you."

"I'm managing," I said through gritted teeth.

As I set the bowl down, Ares lunged for it, knocking it from my hands.

The raw meat and bone splattered across the pristine white floor.

Before I could react, the dog began to gobble it up, along with shards of the ceramic bowl.

I panicked.

"Ares, no!" I reached for him, trying to pull him away from the sharp pieces.

He snapped at me, his teeth grazing my hand.

Scarlett just watched, a silent observer.

An hour later, the dog was whimpering.

By midnight, he was dead.

The vet, summoned by a furious Ethan, confirmed the cause: internal bleeding from swallowing the ceramic shards.

I tried to explain what happened, how it was an accident.

But Scarlett was already weaving her story, her eyes filled with crocodile tears.

"She was so rough with him, Ethan," she sobbed, burying her face in his chest.

"I saw her. She threw the bowl at him. I think... I think she did it on purpose. She's been jealous of me from the start."

Ethan's face was a storm of fury.

He didn't even look at me.

He didn't ask a single question.

He simply judged and condemned me.

"You killed her dog," he said, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

"You took away one of the few things that made her feel safe."

"Ethan, that's not what happened," I pleaded, my voice shaking.

"It was an accident."

He ignored me, his focus entirely on the weeping Scarlett.

He led her gently from the room, whispering comforts.

I was left alone with the dead animal and the crushing weight of the false accusation.

He returned an hour later.

His rage had cooled into something far more terrifying: a calm, calculated cruelty.

"You need to be punished," he said, grabbing my arm.

His grip was like iron.

He dragged me out of the house and across the manicured lawns, to a small, windowless pump house at the edge of the property.

It was dark, damp, and smelled of earth and mildew.

He shoved me inside.

"You will stay here until you understand the consequences of your actions," he said, his voice echoing in the small space.

"Ethan, please," I begged, scrambling back to the door.

"Don't do this. I'm afraid of the dark. Please."

He looked down at me, his face devoid of any emotion.

"I know."

The heavy wooden door slammed shut, plunging me into absolute blackness.

The click of the heavy bolt sliding into place was the sound of my hope dying.

I was alone, in the dark, with nothing but my terror and the knowledge that the man I had married was a monster.

I sank to the cold concrete floor, wrapping my arms around myself, and waited.

I didn't know if I was waiting for him to let me out, or waiting to die.

The cold seeped into my bones, and as the hours stretched into an eternity, I felt my consciousness begin to fade.

But even as the blackness behind my eyes started to match the blackness of the room, a stubborn, primal part of me refused to let go.

I would not die here.

I would not give him the satisfaction.